"ASSASSIN!"
The shout tore through the grand banquet hall as a guard caught sight of the Marquis's body—collapsed in a pool of blood, a dagger buried deep in his throat.
The double doors burst open. More guards stormed in, blades gleaming beneath the sunlight filtering through the stained-glass murals that adorned the high castle walls. At the center of it all stood the assassin, calm as still water, his hooded cloak fluttering slightly in the breeze that swept through the now-silent hall.
He casually withdrew his dagger from the Marquis's neck, then turned to face the newcomers.
The guards halted mid-charge, their formation held. All eyes turned to their commander—a burly man with wild red hair—who raised a fist, signaling them to hold.
"Hand yourself over," the commander snarled, stepping forward, "and I'll see to it that your death is quicker than what you truly deserve."
The assassin chuckled, low and cold.
"You soldiers disgust me," he said. "Have you forgotten who it is that stands before you? Leave now, and I may spare you the fate of your fallen comrades."
The commander's eyes narrowed. "Kill him."
The guards surged forward.
The assassin sighed, almost mournfully. "Why does it always have to end this way?"
As they closed the distance, a sound rang out—like silk being ripped apart by claws. The assassin sheathed his dagger in the same instant a gruesome sight revealed itself: every charging guard had been sliced clean in two. Their bodies fell apart, bisected horizontally, blood and entrails spilling across the crimson carpet and into the folds of the dark curtains.
The commander's face turned ghostly pale. His legs refused to move as the assassin slowly approached.
"Why… why am I alive?" he stammered, mind flashing to what punishment awaited him at the hands of Duke Femhyr of Windsdale for failing to protect the Marquis.
The assassin reached into his cloak and pulled out a small parchment, sealed with black wax and marked with the emblem of a black wildcat.
The commander's shoulders slumped. He knew that seal.
Without a word, the assassin placed the parchment into the commander's trembling hand.
"The Order of the Night has executed the Marquis for crimes of slavery and sponsoring illegal gladiator fights," the assassin declared. "Deliver this message to Duke Femhyr. And if you're wise, you'll find a new lord to serve—preferably one who honors the Phoenix Treaty. Cross the Order again, and next time, you may not live to tell the tale."
The commander looked up—only to find the assassin had vanished like smoke.
"Did I… just meet a Fang and live?" he whispered in disbelief.
But there was no time to wonder. The sound of rushing boots echoed down the corridor. Thinking quickly, he raised his sword—and stabbed himself in the side, gritting his teeth as pain shot through his body. It was a shallow wound, enough to sell the story without lasting damage.
"Commander Brock!" a young officer, Xavier, rushed in with fresh guards. "What happened? Where's the assassin?"
Brock handed over the parchment with a groan, allowing the guards to carry him away.
Xavier glanced at the seal, then sighed. "Lucky bastard. Now I have to face the Duke myself."
---
In the marble chamber of Windsdale's inner court, Duke Femhyr paced behind his desk, face twisted with rage.
"One man," he spat, "slaughters thirty armed guards? What kind of monster—"
Xavier bowed. "A Fang, my Lord. I believe… it may have been the Panther himself."
Silence.
The Duke's face drained of color. "The Panther? I should've hired mages…"
Xavier stepped forward and placed the black-sealed parchment on the table. The Duke's hands trembled as he opened it.
> To Duke Femhyr of Windsdale,
You have been found guilty of violating the Phoenix Treaty: sponsoring slavery and the training of illegal mercenaries.
The Order of the Night offers you two choices:
One: Go to the Sacred Grove and take your own life. Doing so will spare your family from disgrace.
Two: Refuse, and we will come for you. Your death will be made public, along with the full record of your crimes.
Yours faithfully,
The Order of the Night
The Duke slumped into his chair, hands shaking.
"What shall I do, Xavier?"
"I'd suggest you take the first option, my Lord… or vanish from Magnitia forever."
The Duke nodded slowly. "Very well. Tell my sons I died in a hunting accident. Make it convincing."
"I shall do as you ask," Xavier replied, hiding the satisfaction behind his mask of concern.
---
That night, the Duke fled his manor. He rode alone on a black horse weighed down by sacks of gold. The road through the forest was narrow, cold, and quiet—just the way he liked it.
Until something rustled in the bushes.
His horse reared, shrieking in terror, and hurled the Duke to the ground before galloping into the dark.
"Damn beast!" the Duke cursed, scrambling to his feet. "What spooked you—?"
A voice answered him.
"Don't blame the poor thing. I came here for you, not the horse."
The Duke spun, eyes wide. A shadow emerged—cloaked, with eyes glowing blue beneath the hood.
"Panther?" the Duke whispered, drawing his sword. "You—you're here?"
The figure smiled, revealing sharp fangs.
"Why don't you run? Have I lost my touch?"
"I know what you are," the Duke stammered, pulling a small pouch from his coat. With a flick, he hurled it at the assassin. Red fumes exploded into the air.
"Wolfsbane?" the assassin laughed. "Do you seriously think I'm a werewolf?"
The Duke didn't reply—he was already running, crashing into the woods.
"Why do they always run?" the Panther sighed.
Twin daggers gleamed as he vanished into the night.
Moments later, a scream echoed through the forest. The Duke fell to the ground, shrieking as his legs were severed from his body. Blood pooled beneath him as he tried to crawl, leaving a trail of red across the dirt.
The Panther stood above him, blades dripping.
"Mercy…" the Duke sobbed.
But the cloaked figure had already turned, disappearing into the shadows.
A wolf's howl rose in the distance—followed by one final, blood-curdling scream.
-